


Bodice Chronicle

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-09
Updated: 2009-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodice ripping needs no summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodice Chronicle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/24682.html). (9 May 2009)

"Merlin?" Arthur says, blinking, sure that somehow he is asleep and dreaming -- not that this sight has ever featured in his dreams, not even in his wildest fantasies. "Are you..."

Merlin turns to face him then, fiddling with the laces of the bodice, his hands fluttering nervously over the stiff silk covering the stays. "Um," he says, and Arthur would say something biting about Merlin's utter failure at communication but his mouth has gone cottony-dry at the sight of Merlin's creamy skin disappearing into dark blue silk, incongruous against the rough brown canvas of his trousers. 

"I... you weren't supposed to come in," Merlin says plaintively, embarrassed, red flags riding high on his cheeks.

Arthur swallows at the thought, half-formed, that wonders if that blush will spread further down Merlin's throat, across his chest and shoulders. "Why on earth would I not enter my own chambers?" he asks, and if his voice cracks the slightest bit neither of them notices.

Merlin's blush _does_ spread, and Arthur tries to ignore how his heart is beating faster, erratic in his chest.

"You were on patrol," Merlin mutters. "Weren't supposed to be back yet."

"And that gives you permission to come into my chambers and do... this?" asks Arthur, waving his hand at Merlin, unable to find the words to describe exactly what Merlin looks like, not ready to acknowledge that it's not the heat of the summer making him sweat.

Merlin looks down and away, shuffles his feet and clears his throat. "Sorry," he murmurs to the ground. "I'll just..." He trails off, hands reaching back to loosen the laces of the bodice, and Arthur is stepping forward before he has time to think about it.

"Wait," he says, and Merlin whips his head up, meeting his gaze in surprise. Arthur isn't ready for this, isn't ready for Merlin's eyes to meet his, wide and wondering, and he backpedals, tries to bluster his way out of it. "It's just... improper," he says, knowing it's a weak excuse but unable to come up with anything better, too distracted by the way Merlin's throat looks, caught and lit in the last flares of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

"Improper?" Merlin asks, raising one eyebrow, and Arthur can see dawning comprehension in his eyes, the swift adding-up of all the soft shoulder touches, the aborted sentences, the way Arthur grabbed at Merlin's hand, grasping his fingers at the last feast after too many cups of mead. Merlin slowly, slowly brings his hands down, and Arthur is helpless, watching Merlin's long fingers (and hasn't he dreamed about them, too?) trace patterns in the air as Merlin reaches forward.

Merlin runs one of those fingers down the front of Arthur's tunic, and Arthur's knees go weak, watery in a way he's never felt, not even before a fight with an unknown foe. He leans into the touch unconsciously, his own hands clenched at his side, afraid that if he relaxes he'll lose the fight against himself and reach out, bring Merlin closer, take the ridiculous bodice in both hands and rip it into pieces to get at Merlin's perfect skin.

Merlin just looks at him, hand resting on Arthur's chest, long lashes charcoal smudges framing his eyes, and Arthur's pretty sure he's lost.

"Merlin," Arthur says, and this time he does hear the crack in it, the uncertainty in his voice ringing through. "I don't," he tries, but can't quite form the sentence, not with Merlin standing there looking at him, so close, touching with clear intentions. "Are you... Do you really want this?"

He waits, holding his breath, barely daring to think about what it might mean if Merlin says _yes_ , refusing to consider what will happen if Merlin answers _no_ and pulls away out of his reach forever.

"Arthur," Merlin says sternly, and Arthur looks at him, beseeching. "You're an idiot."

He is pressing his lips to Arthur's before Arthur can really process that, curling his sinfully long fingers in Arthur's tunic and pulling forward, making Arthur stumble, lose his balance just enough to make his arms fly out. He catches himself against Merlin's, hands automatically fitting around the other man's bare shoulders. Merlin's mouth is warm against his, lips just barely chapped from the summer winds, and Arthur still quite can't believe it.

When Merlin nips gently at the corner of Arthur's mouth, Arthur gives a ragged gasp, unconsciously tightening his grip on Merlin's shoulders. Merlin takes full advantage of Arthur's opened mouth, and the banked fire in Arthur's chest flares. He presses back, sliding his hands across Merlin's smooth back and down over the silk of the bodice as they fight for dominance, all teeth and tongues and warm panting breath, tangling his fingers in the laces and tugging, making Merlin gasp in turn.

They're pressed too close together, chest to chest, their knees knocking against each other, but Arthur doesn't want to step back, doesn't want to ever give up feeling Merlin like this, the bone stays on his ridiculous bodice digging into Arthur's ribs. He pushes forward instead, backing Merlin step by step toward the table until they crash against it, Merlin reaching behind him to sweep the papers littering it onto the floor, still kissing and kissing and kissing Arthur as if he can't bring himself to ever stop.

Arthur finally pulls away to scrabble at the laces of Merlin's breeches. Merlin leans back on his elbows and groans when Arthur's hand brushes him, head thrown back in pleasure. The laces undone, Arthur lunges forward again to taste his neck, the skin he's watched and wondered about and has featured in too many of his dreams. It is salty with its thin sheen of sweat, soft and utterly lickable. Arthur can feel the vibrations when Merlin groans at the bite mark Arthur leaves behind, and he buries his face in the join where Merlin's neck meets his shoulder, laving the skin with his tongue and biting again just to feel those vibrations, feel Merlin's breath shaking under him.

Merlin's fingers are working at Arthur's own clothes, plucking distractingly at Arthur's tunic, and Arthur has to lean back away from Merlin's neck and join the struggle, pulling the tunic over his head. He gets stuck halfway through, and Merlin just laughs, a breathless, happy sound, before helping him, ripping the cloth away from Arthur's face and throwing it somewhere behind him. Arthur wants to say something about _no wonder my clothes are all in tatters, if that's how you treat them_ , but then Merlin is looking at him in awe, tracing his fingers along the lines of Arthur's muscles, and there is no more room for thought in Arthur's head.

"God, you're beautiful," Merlin breathes, but Arthur isn't ready for that, isn't ready for conversation or pillow talk or whatever that might lead to, isn't ready for anything except feeling the excruciatingly beautiful heat of Merlin's body against his own.

"Shut up," he growls, and pulls Merlin forward again, Merlin who has somehow managed to pull their breeches down when Arthur wasn't paying attention. Arthur bites back his groan but Merlin has no such compunction, squirming against Arthur and making breathy little noises when they brush together, and Arthur needs _more_. He lifts Merlin up, hauling him off the table until Merlin has no choice but to wrap his arms and legs around Arthur, kissing at a spot behind Arthur's ear which has Arthur's vision going hazy with bone-melting lust.

He kicks at his breeches, somehow managing to get them off before he stumbles across the room and falls onto his bed, Merlin warm and solid beneath him, conscious of the picture they make: he's dressed only in his boots and Merlin's still wearing the bodice which looks suspiciously like it might have been Morgana's. He can't quite bring himself to care about any of it, about anything that isn't Merlin's fingers sliding down his spine.

"Wait," he gasps when Merlin surges up and presses their hips together, sending blind pleasure racing through Arthur's veins. "Wait. I need to..." He sits back, pulling feverishly at Merlin's bodice. The blue silk is stronger than it looks, reinforced somehow, but Arthur needs, wants to see Merlin laid completely open before him.

Merlin's breath is coming in shallow huffs now, his eyes dark and glassy from want. His fingers are buried in the sheets, twisting helplessly. "Arthur," he pleads, arching up, and Arthur is distracted by the way his cock is leaking onto the bodice, smearing pale precome over its smooth surface. He palms it, gives it a long slow stroke, and Merlin moans again, the sound rising from deep in his throat.

"I need to see you," he whispers to Merlin, giving his cock another pull, fascinated by the way Merlin writhes beneath his hand. "Need to see all of you, god, Merlin, need to..."

"Laces," Merlin pants, eyes closed, finally letting go of Arthur's sheets in favor of Arthur himself, fingers gripping Arthur's biceps hard enough that Arthur wonders for a brief moment if there will be bruises in the morning. "On the... _fuck_ , do that again, on the back."

"Fuck laces," Arthur says, and rips at the front panels of the bodice again. The silk refuses to give, and he glares at it before remembering his dagger is on the table next to his bed. He moves to get it, ignoring Merlin's mewl of protest, rummaging through the accumulated detritus piled on the table until he comes up with the small blade, triumphant.

"What," Merlin says warily, his eyes open again. "Arthur, what are you--"

"Shh," Arthur soothes, leaning over Merlin, left hand planted at Merlin's shoulder and his knees spread, one on either side of Merlin's pale legs. Merlin stops speaking, but he watches Arthur, his expression pulled between apprehension and lust.

"Just need to _see_ you," Arthur growls, voice harsh with want, and he lifts the dagger, bringing it down in one smooth movement to slice from Merlin's throat to his belly.

Merlin cries out, but the bodice has flopped open, revealing pale skin with just the barest red hint of a scratch from the dagger. Arthur tosses the blade away and leans down to kiss Merlin's chest, dragging his lips down the long thin line of the scrape, and Merlin's cry turns into something far more approving. He buries his fingers in Arthur's hair and tugs, pulling Arthur up to kiss him fiercely before he flips them over.

"You prat," Merlin says, trying to look angry and utterly failing. "You can't just come at me with a _dagger_."

"As if I'd actually cut you," Arthur retorts, resisting the urge to buck up against Merlin. Merlin pins his hands above his head, moving against him sinuously, and Arthur clenches his jaw, muffling his groan. The rest of his coherency flees when Merlin leans down and whispers, lips brushing his ear: "Keep them there." He presses down on Arthur's hands to reinforce his point and Arthur nods wildly, gripping the edge of the bed.

It's hard to remember the promise when Merlin reaches back, sinking his beautiful fingers into himself as his face goes tight with pleasure. Arthur wants to touch, to slide his finger in alongside Merlin's, take some of that pleasure for himself, but Merlin looks at him, eyes dark and hooded with desire, and Arthur just twines his fingers further into the sheets, rocking up futilely. He's speaking, can hear himself forming the words ( _Merlinyesgodyesplease_ ) but he's lost control, can't stop laying himself bare to the sight before him.

Merlin rides him like that, hard and fast, all tight heat ( _GodsotightyesMerlinpleaseMerlinMerlin_ ) and raw emotion racing over his skin in searing waves. He can't look away from Merlin, away from the arching curves of his throat and chest. He forgets his promise, brings his hands up to touch, to grab and pull Merlin closer, harder, faster. Merlin cries out, shuddering, come striping Arthur's chest, and Arthur rolls, surging his hips up and around to pin Merlin beneath him.

Merlin opens wider for him, scratches Arthur's back with his fingernails, the pain a delicious counterpoint, and Arthur is coming, harder than he can ever remember, rolling his hips into Merlin through his orgasm, unwilling to let this perfection end.

After, when Merlin is tucked up against Arthur's chest, one arm draped back over Arthur's arse in a clear proprietary message, Arthur smiles, his own hand splayed out against Merlin's belly, and wonders if Morgana has any other clothes worth stealing.


End file.
